


Suck my Glock

by winterysomnium



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Gun Kink, Gunplay, M/M, Officer Dick Grayson (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sneaking in without saying hello?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suck my Glock

**Author's Note:**

> This won't make much sense without seeing/imagining this picture: http://i235.photobucket.com/albums/ee296/foolish-somnium/dickgun3_zpsd0b304a5.jpg .
> 
> Also: sorry for the lame title.

The Glock 19’s dull, black barrel, the fingers curled around the thick curve of the trigger, the five feet between the room temperature dipped metal and Tim’s cold, bare collarbones – they’re not the danger. 

That’s the dark dye of Dick’s skin, his pretty and round and soft eyes, the weight of him on the back of Tim’s palms, the weight of Tim in Dick’s sight, in the mouth shaped words he smiles. 

“Sneaking in without saying hello?”

Tim’s tunic drops from his shoulder, strings around his elbow and his boots squeak on Dick’s floor as he fumbles with the shirt, electricity crackling between the fabric and his Gotham washed hair, his bones aching under the moment, the picture of a gun and his mouth, a gun and his thighs, a gun and his temple; held to demand.

“Expecting me without telling me to visit?” Tim asks and Dick slides through the still negatives in Tim’s mind, breaks the unfocused reality inside of Tim’s mouth, scratches comfort into the rust of Tim’s itchy veins. “You always visit on the weekend.”

“But I didn’t have to. I could’ve thought you weren’t home.”

“Did you?” is what Dick curves his neck to, the shape of his cock a shift of space between them, 

Tim’s a vague implication, a whole stir of sexuality beating through his chest and if Tim could, he would rub his palm against his jock and tights, would jerk off right here and splatter the low skin of his belly, the horizon of Dick’s bed, would bite his knuckles sucking out Dick’s name but there’s the barrel of a gun, there’s Dick himself and another weekend, another night sculptured just for that. 

(For another Tim.) 

“No,” he answers; dents the sheets between his legs by the crater of his knee, crawls into the angle of Dick’s thighs and when his eyes drop to Dick’s cock, to the dry outline that makes his mouth wet Dick nuzzles the gun against it, rubs the muzzle against his head and gasps when Tim does, when Tim’s hands fist on his thighs and his chest heaves as if the bullets are already stuck in his chest, weights between his ribs, metal on the inside of his lungs. 

There are residues of arguments tucked under Dick’s furniture for days when it’s alright for them to fight and yell through thin lips, for days too tired for sex or romance or intimacy so Tim takes this half hearted one and shoves it under the bed, kicks it to the empty dust under it and bites against his mouth, Dick opens his. 

And Tim stops it, halts it in the moment he sees the rim of Dick’s teeth, the bruised wrist raising the gun to Tim’s face, to the tip of his chin. “For the love of -- **don’t** say _kiss my glock_.”

“Actually, I was going for **suck** , _sweetie_.” And –

oh. It’s _that_ sort of a movie tonight. Ten lies get stuck to Tim’s teeth as his pulse mimics his nervous chatter, talks faster and faster, his chest smelted by the friction until the second when Dick crooks his finger and kisses his mouth, inspecting the inner side of his thoughts and then he drags the muzzle up Tim’s throat, taps his lips. 

Smoothing out the stranded rivers of ink that clung to Tim’s forehead, Dick pulls at Tim’s chin, opening his mouth, moving his hips until Tim sits on his lap, eyelashes fluttering across Dick’s skin. 

“Open up and start working, kid,” he says, pushes the gun past Tim’s lips and front of teeth, heavy and metallic on his tongue. “It’s going to stay right there until it’s squeaky clean; got it?”

(Licking along the muzzle, pulling it out and sliding his lips across Dick’s fingers and the salty trigger, Tim nods, swallows around it again.)

“Got it.”


End file.
